Tony, What Have You Done?
by MezzeVerita
Summary: The relationship between the thunder god and countless shawarma sandwiches. IT WILL LAST.


"Ambrosia and nectar? Gods need real food."

But of course, that's not why he visited Midgard, not for the food. Thor liked to say, when asked, that he was just "patrolling his realm"—seeing the sights and all. And occasionally some petty crime, which was usually taken care of by cops. However, what he didn't get for the longest time was their preference for donuts. This preference for a certain type of mortal food puzzled him and left him standing on the sidewalk looking in the window of the station, Mjolnir a dead weight in his hand.

Eventually, he did come to understand it, one day after he had listened to the thunder in his stomach. In truth, he was out with his friends after waging an epic battle against his now imprisoned brother (Going out to eat wasn't his idea). That time, his stomach had drowned out everything else except for the thought of sustenance.

Tony had ordered for them all, approaching a Middle-Eastern looking guy behind the counter with a beard and a hat shaped like a boat. He paid with a fifty, and all six of their deli creations were ready within the next ten minutes.

The thunder god looked skeptically at the chicken wrap in his hand, challenging it to sate him for the night. When he retired tonight at the big hotel a few blocks over, he would like a round belly just like if he had passed the hours at a giant's party. Honestly, he didn't think it could. His blue eyes twinkled at the 630-calorie meal still hot in its imitation silver wrapper.

He took the first bite before he even took his seat. Granted, it was out of the top of the sandwich, not delving too deep within or squishing the contents out of the flatbread. Even mighty Norse gods had manners; no one destroyed an arrangement of food the first time at a restaurant.

After unwrapping the tinfoil, before baring his cloud-on-a-non-stormy-day white teeth, the first thing that hit him was the scent. It was strong, like him. Intimidating. Also a little bit tangy and meaty. Since he had no idea what was in his sandwich-wrap-thing except for shawarma, Thor decided now was a good time to unravel the mystery.

His second bite he took sitting down, even though he was really the only one eating. The taste and perfect crunchy-squishiness was everything; it encompassed everything; it was probably chicken. This and the sauce, along with the pita bread, made the wrap just moist enough to put off the need for a drink.

Somewhere near the middle of the sandwich, the top of the wrap was big enough to show nearly all the toppings that had been put in there. At the slight movement of his wrist, a few long, curved onion slices fell onto his armored lap, along with some strange, green, leafy stuff too dark to be lettuce. The god didn't notice this immediately because he was so wrapped up in his meal, but when all that was left of the wrap was the folded bottom, he raised his bearded face up feeling a little like a smoker when he has tapped all the ash from his last cigarette and he is forced to leave it smoldering in the tray. But the good part about reaching this point was that he could taste most of the dense sauce that had dripped down to the bottom of the wrap—which was now on his bottom lip.

Within three seconds ended his first encounter with shawarma, and he chose licking his fingers as an alternative to the free napkins behind the counter. In Asgard they had cloth. But no matter, the wrap had been kind to him and his stomach, and he thought of it as he slept. Next time, it was not so kind.

As Thor was not yet King, he wasn't busy the whole daylong. So tomorrow, after waking up in a room not befitting his high status, with a hard bed and a bath that could only hold maybe 300 sandwiches—was he really thinking about this—instead of thousands, like he preferred. The view from the window looked out onto the back of a run-down building and its garbage dumpsters. He found that if he ate in his room in front of this window with the curtains open, mangy stray cats would paw and claw at his window. If he closed the curtains, their screechy claws could still be heard and the sunlight would be blocked. So after a light continental breakfast he returned to the shawarma shop.

He also paid with a fifty—when asking his fellow fighters for Midgardian money he had only cared for the big ones, but none of them had hundreds or five hundreds—and watched the cashier give him a dirty look. His first instinct was to scowl back, but after calling on his few lessons of formality back home and his previous experiences on Earth, he realized smiling was a better choice if he didn't want spit in his food.

(When Jane had told him they did that here he was shocked. He still didn't want to believe it, but he wasn't willing to risk the well being of his brunch.)

The thunder god, this time in his everyday clothes, sat in the corner to avoid being disturbed. This time the server had given him a tray, and he slid it across the sticky table to protect any falling pieces of beloved shawarma from the icky New Yorkiness of the table.

These creations he ate with vigor and excitement. From what he remembered of the last time, the taste was simply too delicious to be savored. He had to have the sandwich in him, even if it was piece by piece of chicken and vegetables and grains of seasoning. If he concentrated really hard, he could feel chunks of shawarma slipping down the first few inches of his esophagus, but that would draw his attention away from the delightful pairing of taste buds and more chicken meat.

Once he got so wrapped up in his wrap and all its delicate ethnic sauces that he swallowed a particularly big piece of chicken too fast; it got caught in his throat as he tried to swallow. In this way the blond god learned to take his time with these, to be careful, and to appreciate them under threat of choking. These shawarma sandwiches were a challenge indeed.

He began to visit the shawarma stand whenever he could, and on Thursdays especially he would spend the entire day there, sometimes ordering three or four or five. And he did this with the big bills, too, and scowled when he received measly fives and ones in return. And a bunch of coins that weren't even made of real gold. During the week, no matter where he was, he would look forward to these visits and miss them when he wasn't there. Any time he went away to visit Jane, shawarma would be on his mind.

To lessen the distance between them, Thor started collecting wrappers. After wiping his mouth with his arm and saying farewell in his mind to all those wonderful colors—the brown shawarma, the white sauce, the greens, reds, purples, and of course the pita bread the color of sand-he would crumple the foil into a ball with his mighty fist and shove it in his pocket (if his outfit had one). If not, he would carry it until the warmth of the sandwich faded from it and even after.

These balls would end up all over the house.

"Oh, another one," Jane would say and then smile before smoothing it out and placing it in a neat, flaky pile. Now if only there were pita bread inside, with its small air pockets pressed against the sheets…

The Asgardian was so glad he would get to spend an eternity eating these Middle-Eastern delicacies. But the shawarma place was run by mortals…could time separate him from his second love? **NO**


End file.
